


the discipline files: animal nature

by Lies_Unfurl



Series: a person in place of a thing [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bestiality, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Creepy Alexander Pierce, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Dogs, Evil Alexander Pierce, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt No Comfort, Other, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24116509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: In 1973, the Winter Soldier lashes out before a mission. Alexander Pierce is given his first chance to reprogram it. Things goes well (from his perspective, at least).In 2014, after the Triskelion falls, the Avengers come into possession of a safe full of folders that previously belonged to Secretary Pierce. Luckily (or not), Tony starts reading them before Steve can.(first chapter contains the htp elements and can be read as a standalone; second chapter ties into the larger series.)
Series: a person in place of a thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740085
Comments: 17
Kudos: 79





	1. 1973

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings. Other entries in this series will eventually get into the "comfort" part of "hurt/comfort," but this story absolutely does not.

“It’s been misbehaving more and more,” says Lukin, frowning down at the files. “I’m beginning to think that you Americans don’t have the capacity to control it.”

Pierce ignores the low-hanging bait. HYDRA is so much bigger than the US or the USSR, but there are some with an irritating tendency to forget that. (Mostly on the other side of the Iron Curtain, he thinks, but of course, voicing that would make him a hypocrite—and with any luck, the Winter Soldier Project will soon be solely in the hands of the Americans, anyway.) “You had it for over 30 years. It may be that the chair alone isn’t sufficient for conditioning.”

“We have never relied solely on the chair,” returns Lukin, looking sour. He often does.

Pierce shakes his head. “Not initially. I’ve read your records quite thoroughly. In the early days, your methods were quite effective at stripping it of its identity. I imagine it can’t have been easy.”

He holds up a hand to forestall whatever Lukin is about to spew about the glories of the Soviet dehumanization methodologies. “In recent years, though, the ways it has been disciplined tend to be… well. They’ve done quite well at making it fears its handlers. It knows to expect pain, should it fail a mission or act out of line.”

“To the point, Alexander,” Lukin replies. So impatient. One day, Pierce thinks, there won’t be a man in all of HYDRA who makes him rush his explanations.

But today is not that day, and Pierce is nothing if not a strategist, and for now, there are more benefits than not to being on Lukin’s good side. 

“Pain for the sake of pain certainly has its purpose. But pain becomes far more effective when it’s closely aligned with a specific message.” He pauses. “You’ve done quite well when it comes to controlling it physically, there’s no denying that. But I believe that I could improve our hold on it psychologically.”

A pause. Pierce waits patiently, fully expecting Lukin to push back, bristle at even the implication that HYDRA’s Soviet arm had any sort of room for improvement.

Instead, he just frowns, looking more thoughtful than anything.

“And this… method,” he says slowly, lip curling as he looks down on the plan that Pierce drafted. He almost looks disgusted. “What you’re proposing now, you think it will be effective?”

Of course he does. He wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.

Pierce pastes on a polite smile. To rise in HYDRA’s ranks, especially as young as he is, one must be a master diplomat. This is a principle he carries with him at all times, but especially when around Lukin. Lukin, who is getting old and impatient, and who may be getting weaker, if Pierce’s suggested scenario truly causes him distress. 

The Asset will require a new head handler someday soon. Pierce has every intention of being that person. And if getting their requires that he cooperate with Lukin, so be it.

“I have confidence in my proposal,” he says. “I realize it may seem… unorthodox. Messier, perhaps, than your usual work. But I assure you, on my good name, you’ll see results.”

Lukin looks at him a moment longer, and then shrugs. “Very well. If nothing else, I doubt you can break it further.”

Pierce smiles as he stands, and this time, the expression is genuine. 

“Oh, but isn’t breaking it the whole idea?”

Behavioral reinforcement works best when it occurs immediately after the infraction that one wishes to prevent. In this case, of course, that isn’t possible. It takes close to twelve hours for Pierce to assemble what he needs; would have taken longer, if not for HYDRA’s immense resources.

Still, he isn’t particularly concerned. The Asset has been in isolation since the incident, with else nothing to occupy its mind. 

And in any case, Pierce will make sure it knows exactly why it’s undergoing the coming ordeal.

Right now, the Asset is strapped to a hastily-rigged contraption, essentially a short sawhorse that keeps its rear raised higher than its head. Its hands are cuffed and shackled to the floor, leaving its weight to rest on its elbows. Similar restraints pin down its legs, keeping them spread open. Its long hair covers its face, leaving Pierce unable to read its expression as he steps in front of it. It is naked.

“Asset,” he says in Russian. “Do you understand why you’re here today?”

If it is aware of him at all, it gives no indication. He kicks at its flesh shoulder, making it lose its balance for a moment before it can steady itself back on its elbows. It refuses to make eye contact.

“Two good men are dead. Loyal servants of HYDRA, who dedicated their lives to making a better world. They did nothing to hurt you. And yet, when we allowed you out of the chair, you lashed out and killed them both, then wounded three more before we sedated you. Why?”

No response, but the muscles on its back tense. It knows there will be punishment, yet the fear of that is not enough to make it comply. Interesting.

“Since you need to be disciplined, we’ve had to readjust the timeline for your mission. Your target is no longer in the same place that she was. Because you interfered with HYDRA’s work, innocent people will die. Your rebellion has allowed violence to flourish. The world hurts for it.”

And still, nothing.

Pierce kneels down, makes his voice go soft. “You have been given a great privilege, to be HYDRA’s valued weapon. But a gun that backfires against its handler is worse than no gun at all. And so it seems that maybe you don’t want to be weapon. Is that right?”

This close he can hear it breath, quiet and even. Not afraid. His conviction in his earlier words to Lukin, about the increasing ineffectiveness of its punishments, grows. With it, a small thrill in his gut: this will work, he knows. He will be the one to get it back under HYDRA’s control.

“So you’re not a weapon, and certainly not a person. What does that leave us with, hmm? Dogs lash out at their masters. Are you a dog?”

The Asset remains mutinously silent. Pierce grabs its chin, lifts its face up.

“Answer me.”

It draws its lips back as if in a snarl, though it makes no sound. It’s enough of an answer, though. Pierce can work with that.

“Very well. You want to act like a dog, you’ll be treated like one.”

Its face doesn’t even twitch. He stands up and steps back.

From his pocket, Pierce procures a small bottle, flicking off the lid. An oil mixed with pheromones from a bitch in heat. He briefly considers explaining this to the Asset, but—

No. His earlier words were more than sufficient. The less it can predict about what’s going to happen, the better.

He walks behind the Asset and upends the bottle. The liquid trickles down his flesh, running in a thin rivulet down his exposed hole. The closest thing to a lubricant that it will get, at least until blood and semen start slicking the way.

Pierce pauses before he leaves and rests his hand on its head, brushing his fingers through its long, greasy hair. He has many theories about how to control someone, and one of them is this: pain hurts more when you can contrast it with memories of its opposite.

“Just remember, you had your chance to serve. You chose this.”

And then he removes his hand and walks out. No point waiting for a reaction that he knows won’t be coming.

In the viewing room, he sits back down next to Lukin and picks up his radio. “Send in the first one,” he orders.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lukin mutters. He looks… uneasy.

Pierce keeps his expression placid. “You don’t need to watch if it makes you squeamish. I can assure you, I’m more than capable of supervising.”

Lukin glares, opening his mouth to respond, but before he can, the door into the treatment room opens and a technician walks in. He holds a leash. At its end, a dog. Some sort of pitbull mix.

It’s the smallest of the eight that Pierce managed to procure on such short notice.

As soon as it gets a whiff of the pheromones it stands on alert. A low growl comes through the monitor that Pierce had set up. Right now, he just needs it for audio, but later on, he can make prints from the footage, and save them as visual evidence to supplement his files.

The technician hesitates, glancing towards the two-way glass.

Pierce sighs, picking up the radio again. He’ll remember this; HYDRA doesn’t need men who can’t obey clear orders. “Release it.”

The technician swallows, obeys, and quickly unclips the collar before rushing out of the room.

Lukin looks away before the first dog finishes. Pierce doesn’t.

In the beginning the Asset fights, writhing and trying to kick out, though between the sawhorse and the cuffs, its legs can’t move more than a few inches. Its struggle is meaningless, of course. The dog, grunting, bites down hard on the base of its neck until it finally stills enough for the dog to get purchase and tear its way inside. It trembles as the beast thrusts inside, though whether it’s out of fury or pain is impossible to say.

With the second dog, the Asset starts making noises. Quiet gasps, barely audible at first, but they soon get louder.

When the third dog, a wolfhound, empties inside it, it screams. It falls silent as the next one hammers away inside it.

“Hold off on bringing in number five,” Pierce orders over the radio as the technician takes away the fourth dog, a shepherd.

“You think it has learned its lesson?” asks Lukin. His face is pale, Pierce notes, mildly amused. Throughout the punishment, he’s often averted his eyes. Pierce hasn’t, not once.

“No. At least, not enough for it to sink in. I believe it’s dissociating.” He stands. “We can’t have that. It’s hardly a good punishment if it isn’t fully present.”

Pierce wrinkles his nose in distaste as he walks into the other room. The air stinks of sex, musk, the blood that leaks from the Solder’s brutalized hole and from the scratches that the dogs gouged into his back amid their frenzied mountings, and of the small puddle of bile where the Asset vomited between the second and third dogs.

He kneels down in front of it, taking care to avoid the mess. Its eyes are open but glazed. There’s blood around its lips, where it must have bitten through when trying to keep its screams inside. Its mouth is slack.

“Asset.”

No response. 

He backhands it. Its head lolls with the force, completely unresistant.

But then it blinks, eyes struggling to focus on Pierce. They fill with tears as it comes back to its torn body; dripping down, they obscure the existing salt of tracks streaking its cheeks.

“Now, now, none of that,” Pierce says gently, patting the cheek he slapped moments before. “You chose this, remember?”

Its chest hitches, like it wants to respond, but it doesn’t say anything. Behind the tears, its expression is scared and confused, and it thrills Pierce, just a little bit, to know he caused that. Nothing remains of its earlier defiance.

“You had the chance to be a weapon. You decided you’d rather be an animal. I’m just treating you like you asked for.”

It shakes its head then, frantically. Opens its mouth, then closes it, like it can’t remember how to speak through all the pain.

“‘No?’ Is that what you’re trying to say?” Pierce shakes his head and stands back up. He pets the Asset’s hair—careful, long, deliberate strokes. “It’s too bad, really. That’s the terrible thing about being an animal, isn’t it? You have as much control as any other object, but you still feel. You still _want_. Weapons really have it much better, if you ask me.”

With those words out, Pierce turns away, walking back to the viewing room. He pauses before opening the door, though, unclipping the radio from his belt. “You can resume now.”

The despairing hitch of breath that it lets out would have been too soft for the sound system in the viewing room to pick up. It makes something inside Pierce unfurl, a shudder of pleasure curling out in his stomach.

Lukin glances at him as he sits down. In the other room, the technician unleashes some large, wire-haired mutt and flees as it rushes toward the Asset. “Haven’t you made your point?”

“No,” Pierce replies calmly, not looking away from the scene. “It’s hurting. But I’m not convinced it’s broken. Let the last four do their job, and then we’ll see.”

Lukin wants to object, Pierce can feel it. But what can he say? That less pain is more effective? They both know that would be a lie in this situation. 

No, he wants Pierce to stop because he thinks that the punishment is too harsh. And he thinks that, of course, because his will isn’t strong enough; his stomach objects. 

And no one who knows HYDRA and wants to live, let alone someone as highly-ranking as Lukin, could ever admit that. Pierce has pushed him up against his limits, and he can no more break out than the Asset, trapped and whimpering beneath a snarling dog, possibly could. 

It’s deeply satisfying knowledge. Pierce doesn’t smile—best not let Lukin know he knows he’s won—but inside, he lets himself preen, just a little bit.

By the time the technician drags away the final dog, a mastiff, the Asset has long stopped screaming. It’s remained mentally present, though, flinching and moaning, twisting its head away from the animals that drool in its hair. 

“Tell me, Alexander,” says Lukin, who had stood up abruptly when they brought in the sixth dog, said something about using the restroom, and hadn’t returned until the seventh was well on its way to completion. “How will you know your plan has worked? That you have fully ripped the humanity out of the Asset?”

“You read my proposal,” Pierce says calmly. “It isn’t finished yet.”

He stands. “Besides, you’re missing the point. You can never fully remove the humanity from a man; that’s why it’s so awfully vexing to work with people. The trick—the point, I daresay—is simply to make a man think his humanity is gone. Better yet, make him believe he never had it. If we can do that, we’ve won. And HYDRA always wins.”

Lukin has no answer to that. Pierce didn’t think he would.

The room smells even worse than when he was in it before. He has to kneel down to unlock the cuffs, putting himself practically at eye-level with its torn, bleeding hole as he makes to release its feet. It’s a disgusting image, all that come welled up and leaking out, his hole so loose Pierce expects he could stick his whole hand in and the Asset wouldn’t even flinch. (Not that he would ever sully himself like that, of course.)

Still, bad as it looks, the Asset is resilient. The damage will heal. The process, Pierce expects, will hurt like the dickens, but that’s hardly his problem.

Feet free, he moves around to release the wrists. The Asset stares at him, its eyes dull. There are tears still running down its face, but it doesn’t seem to notice. 

Though the cuffs click open, it makes no move to free either of its arms from them. Pierce sighs and yanks the sawhorse out from its midriff.

It crumples to the ground, making no effort to break the fall. Its legs twitch, like it wants to curl up but can’t find the strength or the energy to make even that happen. Instead, it just lies there, half in the puddle of come and blood that dripped out of its ass, tremors occasionally running through its body.

It’s still present, though; its mind hasn’t let it go away. Its eyes track Pierce as he kneels down, careful not to dirty his suit on all the waste spilled around the Asset. He tightens his hand in its hair, pulling up its head so he can look it in the eyes.

“What a sorry sight you are,” he says, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. “Filthy. Useless. Just a dog with a dog’s purpose of eating and fucking and killing. Is that right? Is that all you are?”

It could be his imagination—his hope—but he thinks that the words make even more tears well in its eyes. It doesn’t have the energy to shake its head, not this time.

“It’s a shame, really.” He raps his knuckles against the metal arm. “This wasn’t cheap, you know. HYDRA doesn’t like wasting money.”

He signs, furrowing his brow, emulating for all the world the manner of a man deep in thought. Then he grasps its chin, gently rubbing his thumb along its jawline.

“Listen,” he says softly. “You made a poor choice, deciding to be an animal instead of a weapon. But perhaps—maybe—like any good weapon, you’re capable of being recalibrated. I’m sure you can see now why a thing like you best not make its own decisions, hmm?”

It stares at him for a second and then, its chin still resting in his hand, nods its head as best it can.

“HYDRA isn’t unreasonable. We know it can be so hard, so confusing to not understand one’s own nature. That’s why it’s so important for us to be able to have control. We need weapons like you so that we can stop people from hurting themselves. If only you’d let us be in control in the first place, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself in this situation.”

He leans closer. “HYDRA is kind. We understand that the world can trick you into thinking that you’re something other than what you always were. So I’m going to give you one last chance. One opportunity to prove you’re the weapon I know you can be.”

The Asset closes its eyes, squeezes them tight for a moment. When it opens them, there is something—something that’s almost akin to _gratitude_ shining out.

Pierce strokes its hair. “Your purpose is to kill. Not out of anger. Not out of hatred. You know you can’t feel those things anyway. Your purpose is to kill, because you are a weapon, and I am the one allowed to use you, and I wish for you to kill. Are your instructions clear?”

It nods frantically. 

Pierce smiles, carefully putting down its head and standing up. “Good.”

He heads back to the viewing room, not bothering to acknowledge Lukin, who is still seated. Pierce stays standing as he picks up the radio. “Send them in.”

“He can’t possibly win,” Lukin says softly. He doesn’t notice his slip, but oh, Pierce certainly does. “He doesn’t have the energy left.”

“If this was enough to finish _it_ , then _it_ was never a very good weapon in the first place,” Pierce replies serenely. In the other room, the door opens and the eight dogs run, snarling, inside.

It kills like a dream, all elegant and clean. None of the messy, animalistic fury of a man getting revenge on those that hurt him. Just a weapon wielding itself, killing because it was forged to kill. 

When it snaps the neck of the last dog remaining, the Asset stands on shaking feet, nude and trembling, blood and come smearing the inside of its thighs, and looks straight at the two-way mirror. Its hands hang by its side. Its cheeks are lined with dried salt, but its face is blank.

Pierce steps out, carefully avoiding the rottweiler’s corpse. “Status report.”

The Asset licks its lips and rasps out, “Ready to comply.”

Somewhere behind him, Lukin inhales sharply. Pierce smiles.


	2. 2014

Tony stares at the yellowing papers held together with a rusty staple. He can no longer read the words; the vodka has blurred his vision nicely, and anyway, his eyes are still watery from when he threw up.

Unable to actually make out what it says, he’s almost able to pretend that this is just any old office memo. A record of Pierce chewing out someone for microwaving fish in the breakroom, or hiring a new secretary, or telling the US military not to start a nuclear war with Cuba or what-the-fuck ever.

The problem, of course, is that a half hour ago, he was perfectly—well, mostly—sober, and too restless for sleep to be an option. He hadn’t slept much at all in the three days since SHIELD had fallen and every single person in the US government had suddenly come under suspicion of being HYDRA.

And so it had seemed like a good idea—perfectly reasonable, if you asked him—that he should turn that energy towards something productive, something that would help weed out the Nazi-scientist-terrorists from all the regularly evil politician bastards in DC.

Maria Hill had dropped the safe off at the Tower earlier in the morning. “There’s not a single three-letter agency that isn’t under suspicion,” she’d said, her face drawn, dark circles under her eyes. “At this point, the Avengers are the only ones left I’m pretty sure aren’t HYDRA.”

She’d fixed Tony with a fierce, slightly wild-eyed stare. “You’re not HYDRA, are you?”

“I hope not,” Tony had replied, staring at the safe. If not for the lock on each of the drawers—some sort of biometric technology, he thought at a glance—then it could’ve been any file cabinet straight from Staples: three drawers, long and tall, and apparently solid enough to survive a building collapsing on it. “You’re sure it’s Pierce’s?”

“Well, it’s got his name on it.” She tapped the nameplate on the front. Tony shrugged. Fair enough. “There could be more of them. The excavation of the Triskelion has been focused on, you know. Finding survivors. One of my contacts, that I trust, found this and gave me a call before anyone else could get it. So are you going to take it?”

“Obviously. Am I allowed to look inside?” He’d clasped his hands together, giving his best doe-eyes to her unimpressed stare. “Please say I’m allowed to look inside.”

Hill rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. Just don’t leak it all online. There could be info on people who weren’t in Natasha’s data dump, and we don’t want them to know we’ve got their scent.”

Breaking into the safe had been child’s play for Tony. Each drawer, he’d found, held the same thing: a mixture of loose folders at the bottom, and one record box. 

Each of the three record boxes was filled with folders, and each had the same label: _The discipline files_.

They seemed to be arranged by date, so he’d pulled out the earliest folder. Two different sets of stapled-together papers, one in English, the other Russian.

And then the photos had fallen out.

“JARVIS?” he asks, still staring down at the files. “Is Natasha awake?”

“Natasha does not have functional cameras on her floor, but I would be happy to inquire.”

Which means that Nat would wake up, assuming she was on her floor at all. She just came in from DC a few hours ago, on the medflight bringing Steve to the doctors in the Tower. He knows she needs the rest.

He’s also a selfish bastard.

“Yeah. Ask her to come down here, if she doesn’t mind.”

“Very good, sir.” A moment passes, and then, “She will be here momentarily.”

“Great. Thanks, JARVIS.”

He drums his fingers on the table in an erratic pattern. His mind won’t stop cycling through the images, all the blood and the broken body chained down on the floor, and the grainy, zoomed-in footage of where he’d been hurt worst. 

And there are phrases too, caught up in the obsessive thoughts he knows he won’t be able to shake for days. _Self-objectification._ _The ongoing process of dehumanization._

 _It_. They’d called him _it_.

“Tony?”

He starts, turning around in his chair, having to grip the armrest as the movement makes him nauseous.

Natasha frowns, walking over to him. She’s wearing a black bathrobe. He can see at least two knives underneath. “What is this?”

“Maria came by earlier, before you got here. She dropped off a safe they found in the Triskelion wreckage. That belonged to Pierce. I thought I’d take a look at his files. See if there was anything useful.”

Nat nods, but she isn’t looking at him. It takes his alcohol-addled brain a second to realize the obvious reason why: she’s seen the photos spread out across the table.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I shouldn’t be making you look at this. No one should see it. Just—Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do, and who am I supposed to show this to? There’s no fucking way I’m ever tainting Pepper with any of this, and—”

With one hand, Nat picks up the Russian report. The other hand she raises in his direction, shutting him up, which. Is good. Because there really isn’t any way for him to explain how he could never in a million years foist anything this awful onto Pep, but here he is spreading everything out for Natasha.

When she finishes reading the Russian file, she picks up the English version and skims through it, cementing his previous suspicion that they contain the same information. Then she picks up his almost-empty bottle of vodka, takes a sip, and sits down heavily in the chair besides him.

“Fuck,” Tony says miserably.

Nat nods. “How many folders are there?”

“Three boxes’ worth.”

Nat stares at the photos. “Well, we knew his time with HYDRA wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.” 

She takes a deep breath, then lets it out. When she looks back at him, he knows he’s talking to Natasha as a spy and a strategist.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this is probably a good thing. In general, more information is better than less. If, when the justice system starts functioning again, the feds decide to prosecute him? This is evidence he wasn’t acting voluntarily.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Tony mumbles.

Nat ignores him. “And Steve is planning to go after him. He thinks he can bring him in. I’m not convinced, but if he does, then knowing the Soldier’s background could help us treat him. Figure out how to rehabilitate him, if that’s possible.”

“Yeah.” He stares down at the photos, and then the obvious question finally occurs to his alcohol-addled brain. “Wait. Fuck. How am I gonna tell Steve about this?”

“You don’t,” Nat says sharply, before softening a bit. “Not right now, at least. Have you visited him since he came in?”

“I went down to the med center, yeah. But he was sleeping.”

“He was sleeping because his brainwashed best friend beat him to within an inch of his life and shot him what, three times? His healing factor is amazing, but it still takes time. He should be on bedrest for at least another week. If you show him this…”

“...then he’ll be on his feet and learning necromancy so he can bring Pierce back and kill him himself.”

Nat smiles, grim. “Exactly. And there’s another thing, too. Tony, these are basically medical records. We’re both violating the Soldier’s privacy something awful.”

She raises her hand to stave off the self-effacing _fuck_ that Tony was about to let out. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t look at them. You can’t afford to care about confidentiality in my line of work, and like I said, I think they’re important intel for knowing where his mind is at.”

She’s probably right. She usually is. “So why talk about it at all?”

“Well, you and I, we don’t know the Soldier.” She pauses for a fraction of a sentence, not enough for his drunken mind to really wonder why. “Not like Steve does. Steve knows who he is, or who he was, before. Bucky.” She stands up, but doesn’t leave. “He deserves to have someone who can see _him_ , not just everything that was done to him.”

Tony swallows. He feels nauseous again. He wants to finish off the vodka.

“I’m not saying we should never tell Steve. He’ll probably have to know eventually, especially if he somehow manages to bring him in. But I think we should hold off right now.”

He nods. It makes sense. “Should I stop reading them, or…?”

Nat raises her eyebrow. “Are you going to be able to?”

It isn’t fair, really, that she knows him so well when he barely knows a thing about her. 

Tony fiddles with the vodka bottle, turning it in a circle. “I don’t want to read anymore. But...”

“You’re not going to be able to leave them alone,” Natasha finishes. “They’ll haunt you until you’re able to confront just how awful each of them are. You could just let JARVIS scan them and upload them to a database to deal with later, but you’d still want to know just what’s in each of them. You’ll obsess over it until you finally look.”

To his surprise, she touches his shoulder. “It’s not a bad thing, Tony. I think any of us would feel the same way. To want to bear witness, as if that would make what he went through any less awful. Less lonely."

“It won’t, of course,” she adds a second later, stepping away from him. “And you shouldn’t read more than you can handle. But it’s a kind sentiment. You’re a good person.”

She heads back over to the elevator. “Try to get some rest. The files are still going to be here tomorrow. And if you need someone else to go through them with you, let me know. If I’m around, I’ll help.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Nat.”

A moment later he hears the door open and then close, and he knows he’s alone in his apartment again.

She’s right—he knows that. It’s not like there’s anything he can do right now that would even start to make a difference, so he might as well just go to bed. That’s the responsible thing to do.

Still…

He stares down at the photos, his eyes now all too focused on the gut-churning images. How could anyone go through that and come out on the other side, still able to function? 

And it doesn't matter how far down the line the question is—how the hell is he _ever_ supposed to tell Steve about this; how to you even begin to tell someone that their best friend—and maybe he was even more than that, Tony thinks, but Steve hasn’t said and he doesn’t think he can ask now—Christ, it’s bad enough seeing a stranger go through this, but if it was someone he cared about? Someone he’d die for? 

He doesn’t think he could take it. He doubts Steve could either.

And there are still so, so many files left to go.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always very appreciated, especially as I work on future parts of this series!
> 
> [rebloggable on tumblr](https://lies-unfurl.tumblr.com/post/617768945203789824/fic-the-discipline-files-animal-nature)


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